


Mutualism

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Friendship, Gen, Lestrade-centric, Not even a hint of sex here--sorry!, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 08:02:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade discovers that news of Sherlock's demise may have been exaggerated after all, and the two team up again to solve a case.<br/>Wonderful art by YourAverageJoke is <a href="http://your-average-joke.tumblr.com/post/71810166941/mini-bang-entry-my-fantastic">here on tumblr.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Sherlock Mini Bang 2013, with my co-conspirator, the wonderful artist [YourAverageJoke](http://your-average-joke.tumblr.com/) (on tumblr). I could not have asked for a better collaborator. And I'd like to give huge thanks and hugs to [Small_Hobbit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit) and [fengirl88](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88) for reading through early drafts and suggesting fixes that made this thing a thousand times more coherent. All remaining incoherence is my doing. And I apologize for messing with the timeline. I might fix it later, but for now I took license to make it a Christmastime story.

“Hey Greg, it’s a gorgeous mornin’ so give us a big smile, eh?” The old woman tosses her grey curls and winks as she steps in front of D. S. Lestrade, blocking his path. Lestrade replies with a grin, dropping coins into her cup, ignoring the scents of London street life clinging to her tattered overcoat.

“Good morning to you, Miriam. You’re out early! You know St. Aidan’s is serving free breakfast now ‘til Christmas, right? You ought to go over there and see what they’ve got. Tell ‘em you’re on orders from the police to fatten up for winter.”

Miriam sniffs and pulls a thick red scarf tight around her chin. “No thanks, love. Too many CCTV cameras over there and too many Americans trackin’ all our lives these days. Besides—I got money to buy my breakfast this week, thanks to your old friend. Gonna get a fat bacon sandwich at the deli down the street. I’ll save you a bite.”

Lestrade reckons Miriam must be up to her old business of informing on drug dealers in the neighborhood for pocket money. She’s a scrappy one, not afraid of anything or anyone—outside of the NSA and alien deathrays. The “old friend” must be Gregson or one of the other Yarders working on the drugs squad these days. Greg hopes they’re paying her well.

Before he can tell her to be careful of the chill that’s on its way in from the north tonight, Miriam looks over his shoulder, her face twisting into a scowl. She quickly picks up her duffle bag—filled to bursting with god-knows-what—and ducks into the nearest alleyway. Lestrade turns around to catch sight of a uniformed copper hustling a couple of twenty-something homeless boys down the street. The copper seems to be handling them politely, so Lestrade doesn’t interfere this time. She’s under orders to keep loiterers away from the shops, but he can’t help thinking the Met should be using her on a real case rather than as a street cleaner.

He walks a few blocks out of his way to stop at his favorite bakery. There are relatively few real pleasures in his life these days, so he allows himself a treat and a pricey coffee a couple of times a week. This morning an odd rumble of anxiety in his gut woke him early, so now he has plenty of time before catching the underground to work.

The smell of baking bread and whiffs of a sweet, floral honey cheer him up as he steps into the bakery. He waves at Nia, the manager’s teenage daughter, who is busy folding napkins at a corner table. He orders a large coffee and a cinnamon and walnut pastry. Nia rolls her dark eyes at him, full of disdain, as usual. She wears a perpetually pained expression and “Believe in Sherlock” tattooed around her wrist. He’s occasionally seen her in the neighborhood with that Sowersby kid, both in those ridiculous deerstalkers. Lestrade finds it hard to believe that the cult of Sherlock fanatics is still going strong when the man hasn’t appeared on television or in the newspapers for almost two years. Well, unless you’re Anderson, and then you see Sherlock in every newspaper from here to Bangalore, apparently. Lestrade can’t believe a brilliant scientist like Anderson is actually entertaining these fantasies, same as the teenagers. Must simply have a hell of a lot of time to kill now he’s been sacked, poor bugger.

Lestrade sits at a table near the window to eat his pastry and let the steam from the coffee warm his face. Fuck Mondays. He has six burglaries waiting on his desk from last week—all appear to be related, but he has no decent leads. The perpetrators are breaking into travel agencies and mobile phone shops, but don’t seem to be stealing anything other than paperwork, just rummaging through the bins and account books. His team is working under the assumption that they’re taking credit card and banking numbers, but they can’t seem to trace how the numbers are being used. All six of the businesses are operated by and for immigrants from Asia—the Philippines, Bangladesh, India, Nepal, and Indonesia—who use small banks based overseas. These financial crimes are full of frustrations and dead ends, and Lestrade often longs for something tangible, something real he can get his hands on—not a bunch of digits and passwords floating in the ether.

Truth be told, Lestrade hates working burglaries and fraud cases and hates the bloody Chief Superintendent for pushing him out of homicides. The man was just trying to add insult to injury after the demotion. Lestrade has spent twenty years proving himself at the Met, and at age 50, after the Sherlock inquest, practically had to start from square one: new colleagues, new procedures, and a cramped new bachelor flat after the divorce finally got finished.

Last month he considered going to Sally after she settled into his old D.I. post, to ask her to put in a word so he could get back on a homicide team. But the awkwardness between them still makes calling for a favor tough. He’d only been able to get up the energy to collect the miscellaneous stuff from his old desk a couple of weeks ago. At least he'd been able to say hello to John when he'd dropped it off--good excuse to check up on him. Lestrade had been missing their Thursday night darts games lately, but given the raw, pained look in John's eyes, it's probably still too soon to try to invite him out for a pint again.

Lestrade stares out of the window and swallows more coffee, dreading the coming week, wondering if life will ever feel normal again.

His phone buzzes in his pocket just as he’s taking a bite of the pastry.

“Lestrade here,” he mumbles.

“Don’t come in to the Yard, Greg. Go straight down to Smithfield. We got another burglary and it’s even odder than the ones last week. The uniforms say this time there’s blood and signs of a struggle at the scene. I’m sending Dimmock and one of the forensics boys too, just in case. I want you to act as liaison between burglary and homicide, if you find a body. Sending a car to pick you up now. Where are you?”

“I’m at that bakery—the one where we got Dimmock’s birthday cake last year. I’ll wait on the corner in front.”

He can’t help smiling as he shoves the rest of his pastry into his coat pocket for later. Maybe this will be his way back in. He can’t believe he’s so excited about something that could be gruesome. He’s not the late, great Sherlock Holmes, after all. He shouldn't be thinking of crime and mayhem as Christmas presents. Still, someone has to take the case.

“Thanks, Donovan. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Look forward to working with you again, Greg.”


	2. Chapter 2

At the scene, Greg instructs the uniforms to finish putting up “Do Not Cross” tape around the perimeter, then makes his way into the small mobile phone shop. He directs the young sergeant who was first to arrive to start pulling the CCTV footage within a four-block radius, then asks the shop owner, Mrs. Chaudhury, to wait near the front door while the team does a thorough search. He waves Dimmock and Liu in and points towards the back of the shop where there is a small pool of blood and boxes strewn about near the exit to an alley.

He offers Mrs. Chaudhury a reassuring smile. “It’s going be okay, ma’am, just try to stay calm, all right? I need to ask you a few questions.” She wraps her arms protectively around herself, swaying forward and back as the shop is swarmed by a dozen coppers and plainclothes detectives. Lestrade notes that all the valuable merchandise on the shelves remains undisturbed, but the till is open and empty.

“We’ve never had a break-in before. I don’t understand. We have an alarm and a dog that usually scares people away.”

“But the dog isn’t here?”

She shakes her head, visibly more upset now.

“And it looks like they’ve taken cash?” Lestrade motions to the empty till. “Do you know how much?”

She begins to tremble and tears well in her eyes. “None—we empty it every night, and my son Khalil takes the cash and credit card receipts to a safe at our other shop a few miles away. Last night . . . Last night he never arrived at the other shop.” She’s starting to sob now, so Lestrade asks one of the uniforms to fetch Mrs. Chaudhury a cup of tea and a blanket and remain with her while he surveys the rest of the scene.

He follows half the coppers out into the alley, where there are signs of a struggle, including a shoe on the pavement, which Liu is bagging as evidence. Lestrade hoists himself up on an empty crate to peer into the tall skip. He can’t believe he’d been wishing for corpses an hour ago. Cancel that one, please, St. Nick. He does not want to find Khalil Chaudhury in here.

Adrenaline is quickening his pulse and he’s processing details from every corner of the alley. Blood trail that ends a few feet outside the back door. Two different size footprints on the pavement, plus fairly large paw prints. One of the officers is photographing tire tracks that look like they belong to a small truck. Another pulls down a smashed CCTV camera from the building next door.

Dimmock peers out the back door with a wave as Lestrade is climbing out of the skip. “Hey Greg, she’s identified the shoe as her son’s. We’re putting out an APB now and getting a couple of photos for distribution. No body yet, right?”

“No body. But if Liu finds that blood’s a match, then clearly, the son and the dog were taken away in a struggle.”

“Okay. We’ll call it a kidnapping for now, and I’ll go back to the Yard and set up a task force. You come along when your guys are done? You think this is connected to the burglaries last week?”

“Yeah—no doubt. Same pattern—except for the missing person. Thanks, Dimmock. See you back at the Yard, and I’ll update you on what we’ve got so far.”

“Right. Good to be working with you again, Greg.”

“Yeah, same here.”

Walking to the dark far end of the alley, Lestrade sees the glint of metal out of the corner of his eye. A manhole cover is slightly off, and when he lifts it, he finds a steel briefcase resting in a sort of hammock rigged out of plastic mesh. Apparently, this is a drop point for exchanging money, information, drugs, or all of the above—depending on what kind of operation this is.

Lestrade handles the briefcase carefully, lifting it with the sleeves of his coat pulled over his hands, trying not to damage any fingerprints that might be on the handle. There’s a lock on the case, but it’s broken—maybe damaged when someone threw the case and ran. Inside, under a false bottom panel is a gun with four clips of ammunition. In an envelope beside the gun, Lestrade finds a set of photographs: a series of ten black and white shots, all taken in the street, from a distance, but with faces clearly visible. There are three women and seven men of various ages and ethnicities. On the back of each photo is the name of a city and a date. Lestrade recognizes one of the men as an official from the International Court of Justice who was murdered last year—on the date listed on the back of his photo.

In a zippered pocket in the lid of the case, Lestrade finds a few sheets of paper covered in columns of numbers—just rows and rows of numbers. And he finds one more photo. This one is in color—the same portrait that appears on Lestrade’s own warrant card. The date on the back has been scratched out.

Another shot of adrenaline courses through his bloodstream as Lestrade pockets the photo of himself before handing the case over to Liu to process as evidence. He calls in to D. I. Donovan to update her.

“Donovan, we may need more guys on this one. Looks like the burglaries might be connected to a hit man. I’m sending some evidence in to the Yard right now for you and Dimmock to look at. I want to stay out here a little longer and have a look around.”

“Whatever you need. I’d give you D.S. Morgan for this one, but he’s out sick today. I’ll find a couple more guys and let you know. Stay in touch, Greg.”

Lestrade takes a deep breath and leans against the brick wall of the building for a moment, gathering his wits again. Yeah, fuck Mondays.

Leaving the remaining officers with instructions to comb the scene again, Lestrade pulls out his notebook and pen and starts questioning people in the neighborhood. Two men are standing behind the police tape, smoking and watching the coppers continue to scour the alleyway. Lestrade would give a month’s pay for a cigarette right now, but he’s got nothing but a half-eaten pastry and an assassin’s photo in his pockets.

“Hello there. I’m D. S. Greg Lestrade. What are your names?”

“Pete,” says the tall one. “Marcus,” says the short one.

“Did either of you see anyone breaking into the shop last night or someone snooping around?”

Pete shakes his head, but Marcus opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, then looks at Pete and shuts up. They continue to watch the coppers at work, and Lestrade squeezes a few details out of them. Both work part-time on the night shift at a warehouse down the street, both look like they rarely turn down a pint, and both say they sleep half the time with friends and half the time at the church around the corner. They walk by this shop every day to and from work and know the owner and her son by name, but are reluctant to offer any further information.

“Well, have you seen anything out of the ordinary around here lately? Any comings and goings at odd times? Groups of people? Packages dropped off or picked up?”

They look at each other briefly, pause, and shake their heads in unison. Lestrade asks a few more questions. He can see they know something, but they refuse to provide more details.

“Okay, then. I’m gonna give you a card with my phone number on it and if you think of anything . . .”

Marcus takes the card and glances at it, laughing. “Yeah, yeah, we know the drill. We’ll send you a note by carrier pigeon if we remember anything. We’d love to have our throats slit. You’re asking the same questions as that other detective. Are you two working together?”

“Hey, now—what other detective?”

“The posh, skinny one with the long mustache—you two brothers? Same last name on his card as you got here.” Marcus taps the card. “Or maybe you’re a fake, and we’d better steer clear of you?”

The two men turn and quickly walk away, disappearing into the morning rush hour on the street before Lestrade has a chance to press further.

Lestrade closes his eyes and tries not to jump to daft conclusions. He really should have taken early retirement when they offered it. He and Anderson could open a nice little coffee shop together and cater to conspiracy nutters.

He reaches into his pocket to put away his notebook and feels the photograph. His hands start shaking, and he imagines he hears the sound of gunfire and sees blood pulsing from his own chest for a split second. _Shit._ He’s got to keep moving, keep working the case, not start worrying about why he’s on someone’s target list.

Lestrade questions a few shopkeepers, who keep their mouths shut tight for the most part. He questions the kid who is working at the newsagents on the corner. The kid is willing to talk if Lestrade buys him lunch. He says he’s seen one particular fellow talking with Khalil over the past two weeks. The guy talks on the phone a lot and seems to do a lot of trading of envelopes and packages with people—maybe drugs, maybe money, who knows?

“I don’t do drugs, guv. Like I told that other detective with the weird hair. But I seen drug exchanges on tv—one envelope traded for another—and that’s what it looked like to me. And then one day Khalil’s friend brought that fancy silver case—that looked like a Bond briefcase. Maybe it was full of money or a bomb or something!”

“Do you know the man’s name—Khalil’s friend?”

Morgan, I think—that’s my Granddad’s name—my mother’s Dad—so I remembered it. He’s blonde, a young guy. Real good posture, you know? But he keeps making calls and then throwing the phones away—breaking them up and tossing ‘em into the street, so they get washed away in the gutters.”

Lestrade waves one of the remaining uniformed sergeants over and asks him to scour the streets nearby for cast-off mobile phones, then turns back to the young man.

“And what about the other detective you mentioned—the one with the hair?”

“Yeah, long ginger hair and a mustache. Weird. Pushy. I think he must live around here because he gets takeaway at Luigi's all the time. That’s where I usually see him.”

“Thanks, kid. You’ve been a big help,” says Lestrade. His phone buzzes. Dimmock’s calling to consult on the next steps, and Lestrade tries like hell to block out the thrumming ache in his head and the feeling that the whole damn world is turning upside down.


	3. Chapter 3

The ache in Lestrade’s head will not go away, no matter how many aspirin he washes down with vending-machine coffee. He works the case with Dimmock and a couple of the new boys, pinning photos and dates and the few names they have to a board, checking with Interpol and searching databases for similar crimes in Asia, then sending uniforms out once more to do some house-to-house questioning near the scenes of the other six burglaries. They find several people corroborating the newsagent kid’s identification of a youngish blonde guy with military bearing hanging around the scenes, but no one else can attach a name. They ask a sketch artist to try to put together a composite drawing based on the witnesses’ varied memories, but Lestrade doesn’t hold out much hope for a real ID.

When Donovan finally orders him home for a few hours of sleep, he’s been on duty for 32 hours straight, and Lestrade doesn’t resist. He’s exhausted from thinking about the multiple angles of the case with one side of his brain and considering the unimaginable with the other.

Sherlock may be alive. “Sherlock Lives” is not just a bloody Internet meme or hash tag or whatever the fanatics are putting on t-shirts these days. The more Lestrade thinks about it, the more he recognizes that this is exactly the kind of thing Sherlock would do: fake his own death and resurrection. Lestrade wouldn’t put it past him to come back on Easter Sunday, just to show off.

If Sherlock is in London, Lestrade wants to find him before he gets into trouble—and to be honest, he could use some advice about what to do with the photo of himself he found in that briefcase. If he shows it to Donovan or anyone else at the Met, they’ll remove him from the case and give him a bloody bodyguard. And that’ll be the first step to working as a traffic cop if the Chief Superintendent has anything to say about it. This may be his last chance to prove to his colleagues that he deserves to handle the tough cases again—and to prove it to himself too, so he’s keeping the photo under wraps for now.

On his way home, Lestrade realizes that the old homeless network may be the only source of information he can trust right now, so he makes a stop on the way to his flat. There’s a corner near the all-night cinema, only a quarter mile from the site of Mrs. Chaudhury’s shop, where he knows Miriam and a few other old-timers like to meet to play chess and gossip.

He’s right: Miriam is there.

“Oh, my favorite detective’s here!” Her face brightens into a warm smile. “You look like you’re troubled, Greg. What’s the matter?” She scoots over on the bench she’s occupying and motions for him to sit down.

“Long hours on a case, that’s all,” he lies. “I’ve got a few questions for you, my dear, if you don’t mind?” He places two ten-pound notes into her gloved hand and she folds them neatly in half before slipping them under her coat and into her shirt.

“I’m listening.”

“This morning you mentioned an old friend of mine who’s paying you for some information? I think he may be involved in investigating some recent burglaries over in Southfield, but we’ve got our wires crossed and I can’t contact him. So—even if he’s sworn you to secrecy, I need to know where he is. He could be in some trouble, given that the men involved in the burglaries are very dangerous characters. What can you tell me?”

Miriam takes off her gloves to examine her fingernails. Lestrade waits patiently, knowing he’ll get nowhere if he tries the rush her. Finally, she leans close to him and says, “I think you’re right. He’s been up and down the neighborhood for three weeks at least, talking to everyone who used to work for him.” She giggles. “He thinks we don’t know who he is, but of course we do. He’s hot on the trail of some international something is all I know. And it’s something to do with that dreadful Richard Brook, I think.”

“Who is he, Miriam? A name?”

She grins and nudges him. “The tall one, of course. He’s hiding under a ginger wig and ugly mustache and glasses, but you can’t mistake that voice, can you?”

Greg nods and swallows hard. “So, it’s Sherlock? He’s supposed to be dead, you know. Are you sure?”

Miriam looks insulted. “My feet don’t move fast any more, but my eyes are good as ever, Greg. You can see for yourself. He’s staying at Larry’s old place—that cheap bedsit three streets over—you know it? I always thought Sherlock had plenty of money, the way he used to spread it ‘round. But I guess being dead is hard on your bank account, eh?”

Greg can’t help laughing—despite the fact he feels like letting a few tears flow right now, too. Time for that later, though. Now he thinks he’d better get home to shower and think about his next move. Naturally, he’ll have to tell John and Mrs. Hudson and Molly. He can’t keep something this important to himself, can he?

But perhaps the right thing to do is to try to find Sherlock first. It’ll be like the Loch Ness Monster, otherwise. He’ll try to tell everyone it’s real, Sherlock’s really alive, and everyone will just think he’s gone mental and send him to the psych ward. Except bloody Anderson, of course. Anderson will set off fireworks and dance naked in the streets.

He thanks Miriam and walks home to his flat, letting the cold do the work of clearing his head of the confusion of the past two days. After a hot shower to ease his aching muscles, Greg allows himself a three-hour nap to get his strength back. When he wakes, he gathers a few vital supplies, eats a fried egg sandwich, and calls to tell Sally he’ll be in to the Yard a little later. He’ll be following up on some leads for a few hours.

He’s decided he’s going to try to find Zombie Holmes. Greg wouldn’t put it past the wanker to eat human brains for breakfast, so the name fits just fine.


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade opens the bottle of whisky he’s got tucked into his overcoat and takes a sip. It was easy enough to break into the room—cheap lock on the handle. Even easier to get the girl at the front desk to tell him which room she’d rented to a tall, posh ginger bloke with an attitude.

He can’t believe the idiot took no more precautions. Sherlock probably thinks he’s truly immortal by now. Lestrade takes one more sip of the whisky, turns out the lights, and settles into the chair to wait. He wakes up an hour later, when a key jiggles in the lock. Lestrade catches his breath and feels a lump his throat when the familiar slim silhouette appears in the doorway.

Sherlock stands still, alert to the fact that something is different in the flat. Lestrade watches him reach into the pocket of his long beige trenchcoat (something Mycroft would wear, not the stylish consulting detective) and pull out a small knife, the blade flashing in the light from the hallway. Sherlock reaches for a light switch on the wall, but doesn’t flip it on yet.

“Who’s there? Identify yourself immediately.” The rolling baritone is music to Lestrade’s ears. Unmistakable, just like Miriam said.

“Watch out where you wave that weapon, Sherlock. I’m still at the Met, and stabbing a copper will get you in some serious trouble.”

Sherlock spins in Lestrade’s direction and the policeman turns on the small floor lamp beside his chair. Lestrade’s face is bathed in warm yellow light while Sherlock still stands in the shadows, but there’s no mistaking him. He pulls off his wig, large black-framed glasses, and mustache. The familiar mop of black curls appears. So does the smirk.

Suddenly Lestrade feels ten years younger.

Sherlock says nothing, but turns on the overhead light, hangs his coat on a hook by the door, and walks to the corner where an electric kettle and mini refrigerator suffice as a kitchen.

“Glad to see you too, you tosser,” says Lestrade.

“What are you doing here, Lestrade? Couldn’t live without me? Is the Met desperate for the help of a dead man now?”

Lestrade walks to the corner to watch Sherlock make two cups of tea—another in the series of unprecedented happenings today. He looks the same, though a little older and less polished. Also thinner, which Lestrade did not think was possible. Not eating enough to keep a canary alive, without John to prompt him, Lestrade reckons.

“Look, Sherlock, you’re gonna explain to me exactly why and how you’re standing here alive, but it’ll have to wait until later. Right now, I’m interested in two things: When are you going to tell John? And how are you involved in the burglaries in Smithfield?”

A shadow falls across Sherlock’s face as he hands a mug of tea to Lestrade. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lighting his own, then offering the pack and matches to Lestrade.

Lestrade is undone by the first whiff of tobacco and the sight of smoke curling around Sherlock’s face. He lights up and pulls the smoke deep into his lungs. He goes back to his chair with his mug and cigarette. Sherlock passes him an ashtray from the bedside table, using a small saucer for himself. Sherlock reclines on the bed, long legs crossed at the ankles. The two men smoke in silence for ten minutes, listening to the mid-day traffic. Lestrade feels some of the tension of the past few days uncoiling.

“Do you want me to fill you in on John or . . .”

“No need. I’ve maintained my intelligence community, as you know. It’s more accurate than Mycroft’s in most matters within the city of London."

"I heard he met someone recently. A woman, I mean. That'll be good for him."

“Hmm. Possibly. But you didn’t come here to discuss John’s love life, did you? There’s a case?”

“Right—a case.” Lestrade snaps to a more alert posture now, recalling that he’s supposed to be back at the Yard in a few hours. “You’re implicated in the situation, as a witness on the scene at the very least, so I need your cooperation.”

“I’m three steps ahead as usual, Lestrade.”

Sherlock pulls a thick file of papers from beneath the bed and spreads them across the ugly orange duvet. He raises the blind to let in more light and motions for Lestrade to move his chair closer to the bed so he can see the documents more clearly. There are photos, spreadsheets, a small book of names and addresses, a few business cards, and some newspaper clippings from foreign papers—Singapore, Manila, Tokyo, Hong Kong.

Lestrade glances through the photos, mostly mug shots of criminals—six from the UK, two from the US, and three from Russia. There is also a snapshot of Khalil Chaudhury, but several years younger. As he flips through the materials, another photo catches Lestrade’s eye—not a mug shot, but a portrait from a warrant card.

“Hey, that’s Sam—Sam Morgan, a D.S. who used to work under me. He’s under Sally now. What’s he doing in this bunch?”

“D.S. Morgan is a part of Moriarty’s machine—an essential cog, in fact. He was among his top lieutenants, and is now keeping UK operations running smoothly.” Sherlock pauses to light another cigarette. “If you or Donovan or any of the lot at the Yard throw a spanner in the works of Moriarty, Ltd., Morgan will strike.”

Lestrade pulls the photo of himself from his breast pocket and tosses it onto the bed. “Found this at the site of a new burglary early Monday morning. Any guesses about why the hell someone was interested in doing me in?”

Sherlock turns the photo over and nods, trying to make out the date that's been scratched through. “Moriarty’s final game included you, John, and Mrs. Hudson as pawns. When I disappeared, so did the target on your back—at least temporarily.”

Lestrade is not shocked by these revelations or those that follow as Sherlock explains the reach of Moriarty’s enterprise. Lestrade knows the term “mastermind” was accurately applied to Jim Moriarty, so each new bit of information simply confirms the man's power. Lestrade finds he's quickly settling into the old pattern with Sherlock: call and response, question and answer. Sherlock is bringing a lot of disparate bits of information into focus. Lestrade contributes the details he knows so far related to the burglaries. But Morgan? Sherlock must be wrong about that bit, at least.

Sherlock pulls a photo from the stack on the bed. “Your constable Richard Denton? Fell off a scaffolding three months ago in the course of a routine investigation of the deaths of the Salinas brothers, a couple of Philippine nationals? That was Morgan. Denton was too good. You trained him, I believe? Lestrade nods.

Tony and Juan Salinas were trying to leave, trying to get out of the business, and Morgan killed them, but made it look like an accident. Denton was on the verge of breaking the case open, so according to Morgan’s reasoning, he had to die. If he’d got the Met investigating the Salinas deaths, they might follow the trail to everything and everyone else in the machine.”

“I don’t understand. Slow down. How is D.S. Morgan part of Moriarty’s gang? Moriarty’s dead. I don’t . . .” Lestrade is tempted to pull his bottle of whisky out again, but settles for swallowing half the mug of tea and lighting another cigarette. He listens to the story unfold as Sherlock talks rapid-fire, pacing the tiny room.

Three assassins, threatening John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade himself. Sherlock faked his death and followed Mrs. Hudson’s killer on a flight to Istanbul, where the man ultimately met with an unfortunate accident on another murderous assignment. Sherlock spent months unraveling Moriarty’s web, following connections across Europe, northern Africa, and finally on to Asia.

“It’s a perpetual motion machine, Lestrade—one that Moriarty guaranteed would continue operating long after his death. I’ve seen most of the components—prostitution, thievery, fraud, money laundering, drugs. Most of the illicit profits move into the hands of mercenaries and assassins who kill anyone for a price.

“So you skipped the country right after your so-called “fall?” Left the bloke with his sights trained on me in place, did you? Thanks a hell of a lot for that, Sherlock,” says Lestrade, only half joking.

Sherlock says nothing.

Lestrade swallows down a little bile rising in his throat. “It’s Morgan, is it? The one who’s supposed to off me, if it turns out you’re alive?”

Sherlock nods.

“So what happens now? You must have enough evidence so that we can put Morgan and his whole crew away? Are you going to come out of hiding, make yourself known? Show the press they were wrong? Relieve John and Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft of all their worries?” Lestrade is speaking quickly now, excited about the possibilities of bringing the truth to light at last. Anderson may spontaneously combust when he finds out.

“No, I can’t tell anyone. Not yet. There is still too much work to do. Morgan and his crew are too clever to be caught without an equally clever trap. These burglaries of late—so close together—are happening because they need a large influx of cash to fund a group of mercenaries in Chechnya. They want to stir up anger on both sides to destabilize the region for the benefit of an international oil conglomerate. Morgan’s desperation right now is making him sloppy—and that’s to our advantage. You saw that they not only left evidence behind in the latest burglary—they also kidnapped the boy, Khalil, who had been a part-time courier for Morgan. When they made the mistake of breaking into Khalil's mother's shop, the young man apparently caught them in the act. We need to get to the gang before they decide he’s disposable.”

“We? What can I do?”

You’re Scotland Yard’s finest. I’m sure you’ll be of some use.” Sherlock is smiling now, at last.

They sit close together in front of Sherlock’s laptop, tapping into the records in the Met’s mainframe. It’s all obvious once you’re looking for it: They find Morgan’s fabricated educational and military history, easy to cross-check against graduation and service records, but no one ever bothered. Morgan also has an odd string of absences—unexplained sick leave—over the past four years, one bout coinciding with the day of Sherlock’s “death” and a few days afterwards. Sherlock shows Lestrade a grainy CCTV image he’s managed to get—of Morgan with a suspicious case that could easily hold a weapon. Lestrade gets angry.

“Christ, Sherlock, you know the bastard was dating Sally for awhile?”

Sherlock shakes his head and says he didn’t know that, but is not surprised. “Sally’s not known for her discerning taste in men. And I’d assumed already that Morgan had something to do with putting the plot against me in motion. Morgan had Sally’s ear during the case of the missing children—I saw them talking together more than once. He was planting vile thoughts in Sally’s mind and Anderson’s too. Fertile fields, both of them.” Sherlock sniffs and sips his tea.

Lestrade pulls his phone out, saying it’s time to make some calls to the Yard. Sherlock seizes the phone from Lestrade’s hand.

“Absolutely not. I’ve got a plan in motion now, and we must see it through.”

Lestrade stands up and backs Sherlock against the yellowing wallpaper of the bedsit. Breathing heavily, Lestrade lets loose a string of angry curses, accusing Sherlock of selfishness. “If the whole city is vulnerable to these thugs and if they’ve got the Chaudhury boy in their hands, we’ve got to stop them now. And we’ll need a lot more manpower than a skinny lunatic and a washed-up old copper like me.”

Sherlock pushes Lestrade away and straightens the lapels of his jacket. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Lestrade. We have all the resources we need, _and_ the element of surprise. That would be compromised with more people and more bureaucracy in the mix. A careful plan, not an army of bumbling policemen, Lestrade—that’s what’s required here. So let’s get on with our work.”

Lestrade is tired, very tired. And he’s wary of Sherlock’s excessive confidence in this situation, but decides to keep listening. He’ll test the waters to make sure Sherlock’s on the right course, and then maybe let the lunatic steer the craft, God help him. He's feeling a familiar desperation.

“Yeah, let’s go, you daft bastard. What’s the plan?”


	5. Chapter 5

Greg feels a strange fluttering in his stomach when he takes the lift down to the morgue to see Molly. Last time he was here it was with Sherlock, long ago. Can’t believe he now considers that grim case the good old days. And he’d only seen Molly once in the last year—at an awkward tea party Mrs. Hudson threw for John’s birthday. No snarky DVD from Sherlock for that one, sadly.

Lestrade always meant to ring Molly up and try to keep their friendship going, but same as with John, never seemed to get around to it. Sherlock had been the thread that knit them all together and they’d simply unwound bit by bit when he’d gone. Might have helped if they’d been able to talk about the loss, if they’d acknowledged the dark empty space between them, but they never had.

“Oh, hello Greg!” Molly looks up from a set of slides she is arranging beside one of the massive microscopes in the lab, smiling and nearly knocking a beaker from the table. She just manages to catch it halfway to the floor, but then trips over a metal stool on the way to greet Lestrade. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail and brightened with a little black hairpin with a ceramic cat on it. She looks pretty and cheerful as always. The nervous fluttering in Greg’s stomach stops.

“I haven’t seen you in ages,” she squeals. “Are you back on homicides?”

“No,‘fraid not. Still keeping me away from the corpses, more’s the pity!” he laughs. “But I’m doing a bit of consulting for D.I. Donovan, just to help out, you know . . .” Greg has never been very good at lying, especially to friends, so he turns his back to Molly and inspects her bookshelf full of pathology texts, trying not to make eye contact. He explains that this is a special assignment and he needs a little help. When he turns around again, Molly is motioning him towards the waiting area and a comfortable sofa.

“Um. Would you like a cuppa—or, or –there’s a drinks machine over there. And I’ve a bag of crisps and half a cheese sandwich in my handbag . . .” She pulls a horrified face, then giggles. “That’s doesn’t really sound very good, does it? Would you like my leftovers? Ha! Sorry . . .”

“Nah. Thanks, Molls. Don’t have much time today.” They sit awkwardly on the lumpy sofa. “But another time—I mean, we’ll have a proper lunch or a pint and catch up soon, all right? I never meant to let it go so long. After Sherlock died . . .”

It’s Molly’s turn to hide her face. Lestrade watches her jump up and pretend to inspect the drinks machine, randomly pressing buttons and listening to Greg’s questions, clearly uncomfortable. He’d have thought after almost two years she’d have enough distance. Lestrade knows Molly always fancied Sherlock. That must be what set her nerves on edge. He’ll try to be careful in the way he approaches her.

“I’m looking into a series of break and enters and burglaries that are connected with an assault and possible kidnapping and also with a fraud and money laundering scheme. It looks a lot bigger than we’d thought at first. Just the sort of thing Sherlock would have been game for. He would have solved it in the blink of an eye, I reckon.”

Molly turns and nods. “Yes, yes, if only he wasn’t gone. Dead and buried under that big stone . . . smashed skull and all. But he’s gone and there’s only the Met to rely on. Uh, sorry, Greg, I . . . what did you want with me?”

Greg ought to put on his policeman's voice now and try to pressure Molly a bit. She seems so nervous that it’s making him suspicious. She knows something she isn’t saying. But he doesn’t have the heart to scare the girl. “Right, I just need a professional opinion, Dr. Hooper.” He smiles and places a hand gently on her shoulder.

“I think that there may be more we need to know about two recent deaths of a couple of Philippine nationals—the ones in the car park a few months ago, remember? Salinas, was the name. Accidental asphyxiation, the papers said. Blamed it on a faulty car exhaust system. I just want to know if there is any other possible explanation in the records. Maybe someone suspected foul play, but didn’t follow up? The bodies have already been shipped home to Manila, so all we have to go on are whatever records you’ve saved, but maybe there are some clues that the original investigators missed?”

Molly gets up to search the files on the main computer in the office next to the waiting room. She makes a few “oh dear” noises and then motions for Lestrade to come nearer and look at the screen.

“The investigator input the health records of the two deceased brothers. It appears they both had a case of the flu and went to a local doctor two days before they died for treatment. There are some questions in the report—Jack Carson, the Met pathologist assigned to the case, put a note in the file. He wanted to do some further tests for poisoning and it says here he suspected homicide. But D.S. Morgan didn’t sign off. Morgan expedited the shipment of the bodies back to Manila. That’s all I see here, but if you’d like me to ask around . . .”

“Are you sure? Morgan signed off on it? Not Donovan?”

“Yeah, that’s weird, isn’t it? Him just being a sergeant, and giving the okay to close the investigation?”

“Listen, Molly—can you look up one more record for me?”

“Sure, Greg. Who?”

“Richard Denton, Met constable. I know his body was brought here for autopsy, and I think your lot ruled it an accidental death.”

Molly slides the mouse up and down, scrolling through several pages of information before finding something that makes her scowl and motion for Lestrade to look at the screen again.

It’s the same thing, Greg. Jack, your Met pathologist, put this note in the file recommending a full autopsy for Denton. The original conclusion was an accidental fall, but the note says additional evidence of high doses of painkillers and sleeping medications in his system. It’s a weird mix of stuff that no sane physician would prescribe.”

Greg runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes. “And who signed off to close that investigation?”

“Oh. It was D.S. Morgan again. I guess he’s Inspector Donovan’s favourite, then? Like Sally used to be your . . . Um . . . That’s odd, though. Seems enough here to keep it open and at least run the autopsy. Oh. Oh, dear.” Molly is rapidly clicking at the keyboard and scrolling through another set of records, making little “tsk, tsk” noises.”

“What is it, Molly? Something else?”

“I thought I remembered another odd case from last year. And here it is. A uniformed policeman shot during a burglary-in-progress. He was wounded, but not critically. Then something went badly wrong during his stay in hospital—got a wretched infection and fever—and died a couple of days later, without regaining consciousness.”

“Can I guess who the assigned investigator was?”

“Yeah,” she whispers. “It’s D. S. Morgan.”

Lestrade puts on his overcoat, which is suddenly ten times heavier than it was this morning. He badly wants to drink the rest of the whisky in his pocket, but instead, he sets the half-full bottle on Molly’s desk. He’ll need a clear head for his next stop.

“Thanks, Molly. I think that’s enough for now. I really appreciate your help. Next time I come back, let’s have a drink together and talk about old times, eh?” He points to the bottle. “If you finish that before I get back, I’ll buy us another.”

“Thanks, Greg. And Happy Christmas to you, in case I don’t see you before.” She’s smiling a sweet, wistful smile.

“Yeah, Happy Christmas to you, too, Molly.” Lestrade turns and leans on the doorframe, hesitating, but then realizing he ought to take this chance to tell her. “Sherlock was always really grateful to you, Molly. I don’t know if he ever told you how much you helped him with all his work. He needed you.”

She looks curiously at Lestrade, as if she’s going to ask a question, but then looks down at her hands and just nods. Her lips are trembling. “Yes. He . . . He told me. Thanks, Greg. And . . . I know he needed you too.”

Lestrade steps outside Bart’s to make a call. He finds a quiet spot on the other side of the street. He wonders how the hell Molly knows—because he’s pretty damn sure she knows—that Sherlock is alive. Why would Sherlock tell Molly and no one else? That sneaky bastard has a lot more explaining to do.

“Sherlock. Lestrade here. You were right. I’ve just confirmed Morgan’s cleaning up after his gang from inside the Yard. I’m up for trying your plan. You find out from your network where the headquarters is, and I’ll meet you nearby as soon as I take care of some business.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sally is sitting at Lestrade’s old desk, leaning back with her arms folded across her chest. Determined not to give an inch.

“With all due respect, Greg, you’re out of your mind. I know Sergeant Morgan—he’s as straight as an arrow and honest as they come. He was in the military before he joined the Met. We’re lucky to have a guy like him. For God's sake--you brought him into the unit, didn't you?”

Lestrade is trying to rally the right evidence to convince her, but it’s tough to be steadfast, polite, and secretive about Sherlock and their plan—all at once. She doesn’t respond well to bullying, and he doesn’t have it in him today, anyway. Much as Sherlock wants to operate like a rogue freelance investigator, Lestrade knows the operation and any future prosecution may go completely to hell if they don’t get _someone_ else at the Met on board.

And he’d like an honourable policeman’s funeral, at least, if they both end up dead.

“Sally, I’m pretty damn sure about this. You know me—I wouldn’t come to you without evidence. And I need your support.”

“What evidence? A random list of suspicions and accidental deaths? When I put you on this case with Dimmock, it wasn’t so you’d go off on a wild goose chase after bent cops and fictional international syndicates. You say you’ve got evidence of Morgan messing with investigations, but you’re not bringing me anything but some bits and pieces that you’re arranging in your head to incriminate my sergeant.” Her voice breaks for a moment. “Christ, you’re saying, in effect, that I don’t know how to run this team, that I’ve put a fucking criminal in as my right hand. I thought you were better than that, Greg.”

Lestrade shifts uncomfortably in his chair and stares out the window. He doesn’t know what to say that won’t make things worse now, but he can’t back down.

Donovan leans forward on the desk, her voice steadier now, and lower. “Listen, Greg, I understand if these complicated cases you’re on are driving you mad right now. That’s normal. You should take a few more hours to rest. I assure you, it’s fine for D.S. Morgan to sign off on routine paperwork, so put all this out of your mind, okay?”

Lestrade stands up and starts pacing, his voice on the edge of shouting now. “This isn’t routine, Donovan. He’s ignoring recommendations from the pathologists. He’s covering something up. Look, I didn’t get Molly to print out the records, but I can do that now. I’ll tell her to send them over. Let’s get Jack Carson in here--he's a link among all these cases. He’ll tell you there’s something very bad going on.”

Sally stands up now, too, then turns to look out the window, shaking her head. “Shit, Greg. I thought you’d heard.” Her voice is a whisper now. “Jack’s dead. Six days ago. Car crash on his way up to Manchester to visit his sister. The brakes failed and the thing ran right off the road. Gas tank exploded.”

Lestrade is silent for a few minutes. The throbbing ache in his head is almost unbearable now. “Will there be an investigation into his death?”

Sally sits down and leans on the desk, covering her face in her hands. “No,” she says. “Morgan did an initial investigation with his team and closed the case.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Then Lestrade walks around the desk to Sally’s computer—his old computer. He pulls up Morgan’s Met Personnel files, and opens his C.V. “Give me 8 hours, Sally. I just want to pursue some possibilities, okay? In the meantime, ask one of the new sergeants—someone not connected to Morgan—to run a check on this information, to see if he really is as straight an arrow as you say.”

Sally looks up and nods. “Okay, 8 hours. I'll put in a little legwork of my own too. Then you call me, and I’ll either re-assign you off Dimmock’s task force, or we’ll all work together on your leads.”

Lestrade extends his hand and Sally shakes it. “Be careful, Greg.”

“You too, Sally. We’re dealing with some desperate men.”

Lestrade takes the lift downstairs, and heads out of the building, texting Sherlock as he hails a cab.

_On my way._   
_Meet you at the café near the target._   
_Order me a coffee and a burger._

_Running on empty._

 


	7. Chapter 7

Lestrade shifts and grunts. His knees are too banged up from decades of football to be crouching under a stairway in a damp cellar all night. Why can’t criminals operate in more convenient locations and during normal business hours? Lestrade wouldn’t mind surveilling someone in Kew Gardens on a sunny afternoon. He grunts again when he feels Sherlock’s sharp elbow nearly puncture his kidney.

“Holy hell, Sherlock, watch what you’re doing there,” he hisses.

Sherlock ignores the request, so Lestrade shifts again, trying to find a comfortable--or at least less painful--position, so both his feet won't go numb. Sherlock's doing something on his phone—sending messages to more minions in his network, probably. Lestrade glances over his shoulder and sees his own name and the word “Nepali,” but honestly doesn’t want to know the details. Lestrade would like to imagine that Sherlock’s ordering a nice lentil stew and a bottle of beer from the Sherpa Grill down the street, to be delivered to this hell hole they’re in—and a pack of cigarettes would be very helpful, too. It’s been four hours already, and he’s starving for food and nicotine. No idea how much longer they’ll have to sit here before the fucking criminal element arrives.

Getting in had been easier than they’d anticipated. Morgan’s gang had been using Mrs. Chaudhury's guard dog as a deterrent at the cellar entrance. He's a scary-looking beast, for sure, but Lestrade has a way with dogs, and still had half a pastry in his pocket, so they’d become fast friends. The enormous, shaggy brown mutt had licked the crumbs from Lestrade’s fingers and then led Lestrade and Sherlock down the stairs and through a corridor into the small cell where Khalil was tied up, a makeshift bandage wrapped around his bloody leg.

The poor kid began wailing and pleading incoherently when Lestrade showed him his warrant card and tried to reassure him that he’d be safe soon. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I was just trying to make a little money. I just . . . I didn’t know.  I'm so stupid. I’m so sorry. Tell my mother I’m sorry.”

Without warning Lestrade first, Sherlock had administered an injection of anesthesia to Khalil—to make sure he’d sleep for at least another six hours, and then he'd dosed the dog too. "Christ, Sherlock! What are you doing? You can't just carry around syringes and . . ." All the reasons Sherlock was a giant pain in the arse to work with had come back in a flood. Lestrade had insisted that they carry the dog with them to the crawlspace under the stairs where they planned to hide.

"With any luck the gang will assume the dog broke off his chain and ran away. If we leave the dog outside unconscious they'll get suspicious immediately--or they might just kill him, Sherlock. I don't need a dead dog on my conscience too. Now help me hide him in the corner.”

To Lestrade's surprise, Sherlock had helped to carry the dog, and found an old blanket to cover the snoring beast as well.

While they wait under the stairs, Lestrade keeps checking the mutt’s breathing, and gets up to check on Khalil every half hour too. He’ll be glad to return them both to Mrs. Chaudhury at the end of this case—at least one guaranteed happy ending.

Sherlock has named the somewhat inept watchdog “Anderson." Lestrade wonders if Sherlock knows the extent of Anderson's devotion to him now. He thinks Sherlock would be pleased to see Anderson's bulging file of newspaper clippings and annotated map. Lestrade is sort of looking forward to telling Anderson he's been right in all his daft theories--or most of them, at least. Still not sure why the nutter keeps insisting that Sherlock solved _all_ Lestrade's cases. Patently untrue, obviously.

The cellar they've found themselves in is the unimpressive headquarters of Morgan’s node of Moriarty's operation. A quick look around reveals a cache of a dozen automatic and semi-automatic weapons in crates. Behind a false panel of bookcases there are two tall humming racks of Internet servers and other tech equipment Lestrade cannot identify. The room has six small desks, but no computers. When Lestrade starts scratching his head and asking questions, Sherlock steals his pocket notebook and draws out some diagrams and maps connecting the links of among the nodes of the fraud and murder-for-hire network.

"They use laptops, which they carry in and out daily to ensure that no information stays on the premises," says Sherlock. "They have operatives on the inside in at least four international banks, and those operatives help disguise transactions and facilitate identity theft. They have additional operatives who funnel the channel the money to the assassins and mercenaries."

Lestrade nods and leans back, straightening his legs, trying to get comfortable again. Sherlock laughs at the sound of the copper's cracking joints.

"Oh, fine. You'll be in the same shape in twenty years, mark my words, Sherlock. All the crazy spills and scrapes you've been in--you'll probably be worse than me." He pauses and tries to catch a glimpse of Sherlock in the dark. "Plus, cracked your skull open and died. Don't you think you'll have some lasting effects of that little episode?"

"Perhaps. Dying can take its toll on the bodily systems." Lestrade can hear a smile.

They sit quietly for a few minutes and Lestrade decides he may as well try to pass the time with some conversation. "Sherlock, I understand you were trying to protect people by jumping off that building, but . . . don't you think you could have trusted John with the truth by now? It's been a long time--and you're trusting me not to talk. Why not trust him? Why not let him help you too?"

It's Sherlock's turn to shift and twist and stretch his long legs. "No. It's not a matter of trust, Lestrade," he snaps, clearly irritated. "It's a matter of identity. I can't change my nature and John can't change his. I can't stop working if there's a puzzle left unsolved, can I? And the dismantling of Moriarty's perpetual crime machine is not complete. John likes the danger, the risk, the adrenaline rush. That's good most of the time--very good, indeed, when bullets are flying or hounds are howling at the moon. But he doesn't love the mysteries themselves, and he'd want me to stop now Moriarty's gone. He'd get impatient doing the tedious work of following me down blind alleys and chasing after each widget and cog.

"Ah. That's why I'm here, is it? I like the tedious widgets and cogs?"

"In a word: Yes."

Lestrade is silent for a few minutes, trying to decide whether Sherlock is insulting or complimenting him. But it's Sherlock, so clearly it's an insult.

"So do you agree with Anderson, then? He says you solved all my cases. I suppose I just come in at the end to fill out the paperwork?" Lestrade is exhausted and suddenly annoyed by the whole series of events over the past few days. How did he go from working a good, respectable case with Dimmock to trailing around on Sherlock's bloody coattails again? He's got a monstrous headdache and an urge to punch the conceited bugger in the face now. He no longer remembers exactly why they're here waiting to be slaughtered by a gang of international criminals.

Then Sherlock sighs and speaks in a softer tone of voice than Lestrade has heard in awhile. "Anderson is mistaken, as always. Mutualism, Lestrade. Symbiotic mutualism. You can't survive without me for long, nor I without you.That's why we're sitting here together right now, obviously." Lestrade can see the whites of Sherlock's eyes dancing, as he leans in closer. "Your police work at the scene of the seven burglaries, your witnesses, your conversations with--God help us all--Sally Donovan--it's all down to you that the case against Morgan will stick in court and the perpetrators will be jailed. I've no patience for all that nonsense. I solve the puzzles; you close the cases. That's the natural order of things considering our vastly unequal mental capacities."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. I thought for a moment you were saying something nice."

"That's why you're an idiot."

  
"Clearly. A desperate idiot, I suppose--because you're starting to make sense to me."

"We're both desperate, Lestrade. Desperate for the game. Better than being boring and complacent, don't you think?"

Sherlock's phone vibrates quietly, and he scoots away from Lestrade to answer it. “Thanks, Edward, you’ve done well. I’ll get some money to you through Miriam tomorrow.”

“Who was that? What’s going on?”

Sherlock checks the time. “They’ll be here soon. Edward, one of the boys in the network, confirms that he's seen at least two of the operatives heading this way and they've got computers with them."

“Jesus. Are we ready? Remember, Sherlock--if we want the case to stick, we’ve got to get those laptops undamaged. We can’t let them run away with them or destroy them. And the weapons should stay untouched too, if possible. We may be able to trace at least some of them to specific crimes."

Sherlock looks down at a new text. “Edward says there are now four or five men on the way. We can handle them easily, seize the laptops, and be done with it. No problem. Then you can call in Sally's team and I'll exit stage left. No one has to know I was ever here."

“You like those odds, do you? Two against five?”

“What are you doing, Lestrade?”

“Playing Tetris," Lestrade lies. "I’m bored. You're so bloody dull, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and starts to ask a question, but it's too late. They hear boots stomping above their heads and voices. Sounds like four men. There's a "click," and light floods the cellar. Sherlock pulls on a black ski mask and both detectives hold their breath.

They hear some mumbling about the missing dog.

Lestrade glances at Sherlock and sees a look of utter delight in his eyes. _The lunatic is right_ , he thinks. _Might as well enjoy this_. He feels Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder tapping out the count of ten as they’d agreed. Lestrade reaches out and flips the electric breaker next to him, and all the lights go out. They leap from their hiding spot, torches and makeshift wooden clubs in hand.

Morgan’s gang goes down one, two, three. Sherlock takes the first man to the floor with judo and knocks him unconscious. Lestrade kicks the legs out from under the second in a move he’s done a thousand times on the football field, and the man knocks himself out when his head hits one of the weapons crates. Sherlock manages to put the third fellow in a headlock and then knee him in the groin, putting him on the floor writhing in pain. Lestrade handcuffs all three men to one of the heavy metal tables in the back of the room.

Sherlock and Lestrade search in vain for the fourth man who’d marched down the stairs. Lestrade spots him shimmying through a small trap door in the ceiling at the north end of the cellar. Lestrade leaps up, pulls the man down by his legs, and they wrestle on the floor for a moment before Sherlock intervenes with a formidable blade drawn from his boot.

“That’ll be enough of that. Get your hands off the Yarder, if you please—and join your friends over there unless you’d like to lose a foot—or an eye.”

Lestrade and Sherlock flip the lights back on, out of breath, but with only a few bruises. Lestrade is on the verge of wrapping his arms around Sherlock because he’s so relieved to be alive and done with this caper. But just as the handcuffs click shut on the fourth man, D. S. Sam Morgan walks down the stairs, a pearl-handled pistol in his hand and an ugly grin on his boyish face.

“Just a moment, now, lads. I don’t think our evening’s entertainment is finished.” Lestrade stays perfectly still, mind racing, watching Sherlock for signs that he has a contingency plan for this situation—because God knows, Lestrade was not expecting this.

“I thought you’d be in the first wave, Sebastian. But you waited for the second act—so you could make a grand entrance.”

 _Who the hell is Sebastian,_ thinks Lestrade.

“Ah, Sherlock. I'd know that voice anywhere. This is not the second act, it’s the finale. I’ve wanted to blast that smirk off your face since I had you in my sights at the swimming pool. I can’t wait to complete the mission. This is for Jim Moriarty. Bye bye, Mr. Holmes.”

Lestrade is operating on nothing but instinct and adrenaline now and wishing John were here. John, with his cool nerves and steady hands in any crisis. Lestrade's brain is drowning in details, trying to recall the layout of the room and any possible defensive positions. He pushes Sherlock down to the floor and falls after him, banging his shoulder hard on a concrete pillar. They roll behind a row of metal file cabinets. Morgan fires after them, but only grazes Lestrade’s shoe as he’s diving for cover, trying to shield Sherlock. There's a sudden movement, a low growl, and before Morgan can get off another shot, Anderson the dog is sinking sharp teeth into the man's forearm and the pistol is slidng across the floor. Now the sound of police sirens and the shuffle of a dozen boots can be heard overhead. Sally has come through as promised.

D. I. Donovan had come around to Lestrade's way of thinking pretty quickly after talking with Molly at the morgue and discovering that Morgan’s whole C.V. was riddled with lies. On the way to meet Sherlock at the cellar, Lestrade had phoned her with the location and a vague sketch of the plan--minus Sherlock, of course. She'd wanted him to take more backup, but they'd finally agreed that Lestrade would text her every five minutes, to indicate that he was safe. She would come in with an extraction team—and a medic—if he ever went more than 6 minutes between texts.

As soon as Morgan is in custody and the other members of his crew are marched upstairs to the waiting vans, Lestrade realizes he doesn't know where Sherlock is. He'd disappeared just as the Met team arrived. The trap door at the back of the cellar is swinging on its hinges and there’s a pack of cigarettes in Lestrade’s coat pocket that definitely wasn’t there ten minutes ago.

Within an hour, Morgan (also known as Sebastian Moran, apparently) is in an interrogation room with an enraged D. I. Donovan who is no mood to hear his crackpot theories about Sherlock fucking Holmes being alive and well. Lestrade promises to come in later and start the shitload of paperwork that he and Dimmock will have to deal with, but first he wants to call Mrs. Chaudhury and follow the ambulance taking Khalil to the A & E, with the furry Anderson howling in the back seat.


	8. Chapter 8

“Christ, I’m completely knackered, aren’t you?” Lestrade stirs a spoonful of sugar into his tea and watches a genuine smile—not a smirk—spread over the whole of Sherlock’s face. God help him, he’d truly missed that face when it was gone. They each order eggs, bacon, and toast, and send the waitress off before leaning back in their chairs and sipping the blessed tea.

“No, I’m not knackered, Inspector—I’m brimming with energy. You’re just getting old. Need an afternoon nap and some herbal soothers, do you?”

“Not an Inspector anymore, remember? And you’re a liar. I saw you almost nod off in your chair a few minutes ago.” Lestrade rubs his injured shoulder and sips his tea.

“Let’s finish our breakfast and get on with planning how you’re going to break the news of your resurrection to John, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft—the lot of them. It’ll be a delicate matter, but I think you should go to John first. He needs more than anyone to know you’re alive.”

Sherlock shifts in his seat, eyes gray and heavy-lidded with fatigue—but unwavering. He looks over Lestrade’s shoulder towards the café window, refusing to speak. The bastard has something up his sleeve, Lestrade thinks. But the detective is in no mood for nonsense, not after all they’ve been through in the past few days.

“Sherlock, you promised you would step out of the grave for real once we’d got Morgan—I mean Moran—out of the picture. Done. Done and dusted, my old friend. So you’ve got to face everyone. After the first shock, they’ll all be happy you’re back. Anderson will be over the moon!

Silence.

“Sherlock . . .” Lestrade lets a bit of the threatening copper creep into his voice.

“I’m not coming back yet, Lestrade. There’s one more Moriarty lieutenant out there. The primary threads of the web are cut, yes. It was essential to destroy Moran and his London base of operations, but he’s not the last assassin. The fellow who was designated as John’s killer is still at large.”

“But surely without the structure, without Moriarty or Moran at the top pulling the strings—is John really still in danger after all this time?"

“I honestly don't know, but I can’t take a chance. I must find the last man and dispose of him, like the others. I’ve had a communication this morning that puts him in Katmandu, planning . . .”

“Katmandu? Kat-man-fucking-du?” Lestrade’s voice raises at least an octave higher than is comfortable just then, so he stops himself and takes a breath and a gulp of tea before continuing. Are you honestly telling me you’re going to run off to Katmandu now?”

“Yes. And I must demand your discretion, of course, Lestrade.”

“Pardon me, Sherlock, but no! You can’t do this again. You _cannot._ At least go speak to John and Mrs. Hudson quietly, please.”

“If I go near John or Mrs. Hudson, I may put them in danger. Must I explain this _again_ , Lestrade?”

Lestrade shakes his head and then buries his stubbled face in his hands. He has to admit that the caution has some merit, and Lestrade can’t say that he wouldn’t feel the same in Sherlock’s position. _Dammit_. “I honestly don’t know how long I can keep this secret, Sherlock. It’s . . . I don’t know what I’ll do the next time I see John. I’m not a born liar like you.”

Sherlock seems to relax just then and smiles his “game is on” smile. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small black leather case about the size of a paperback novel and slides it across the table to Lestrade.

“What’s that?”

“Open it.”

Inside, Lestrade finds a passport with his own photograph under the false name Sidney Paget, a toothbrush, a pair of black silk boxers, and three nicotine patches.

“What the hell? Why’ve you got Paget’s name here—that creepy little photographer who works for your brother?”

Sherlock’s grin broadens as he pulls twenty pounds from his wallet and lays the money on the table, nodding at the waitress. “If the name’s your only objection, we’ve no worries. Perhaps Mycroft can arrange a new alias on the way to Heathrow. But Paget is malleable, trustworthy, and happy to offer his identity for a reasonable price. There’s a plane waiting for us. I need help on this mission, Lestrade, and I assume that trekking the Himalayas is on your bucket list.”

Lestrade laughs, partly at the lunacy of what is happening and partly out of sheer exhaustion. “You idiot. I can’t come with you, Sherlock. I have a job. . .”

“A job you don’t particularly care for right now, with colleagues who’ll run you through a series of uncomfortable questions the minute you step foot back at New Scotland Yard.”

He’s right, of course. Lestrade looks down at his half-empty plate. “Well, I also have a flat, family, friends, responsibilities . . .”

Silence. Sherlock is rolling his eyes and sighing, tapping his fingers on the table.

Lestrade pulls a face, and huffs indignantly. “I do!”

“For God’s sake, Lestrade. Your many, many friends—both of them—will be waiting for you when we return. Anthea will take care of your flat and paying your bills. Mycroft might even arrange to get you back on homicides if everything works out as planned. I’ve been trying to get him to engineer an unfortunate accident for Sally Donovan for years, but . . .”

“Come on now. Stop that. Sally saved our arses, and you know it. Wait—Mycroft knows you’re alive?”

“How do you think you got that passport—and the underwear?”

A horn sounds from the street and a long black car slides into view through the window of the café. Sherlock stands and motions for Lestrade to get up too.

“Jesus. Sherlock, I can’t.”

“You can. Miriam told me you needed a vacation, and that I should take you with me. I’m only following her orders. If you don’t come, Mycroft intends to place you in protective custody.” Sherlock’s smile morphs into a smirk. “He’ll probably whisk you off to his Club, and you’ll have to eat dry biscuits and read the _Financial Times_ in silence until I give the all clear signal. It could be months of agony. Sounds like a fate far worse than adventuring at the top of the world, doesn’t it?”

Lestrade is still staring at his plate. He can’t really leave right now, can he? His heart is racing and telling him to get up, but his legs are refusing to budge.

Sherlock is tying his scarf with a flourish, looking exasperated now. “Mycroft fancies you, you know. I’d be worried about his definition of protective custody if I were you.” He hands Lestrade his overcoat.

Lestrade can feel himself blushing. _Bloody lunatic Holmes brothers. They think everyone will just jump at their commands._ He downs the last of the tea and pockets a thick piece of toast—just in case there are dogs in Katmandu that need handling.

Sherlock pushes Lestrade through the door and towards the waiting car. Lestrade sees him stop and pull a deerstalker and a _Rough Guide: Nepal_ from his pocket and hand it to a young homeless boy, who nods and grins.

"What's that all about?" asks Lestrade.

Sherlock smiles and winks. "Just a little gift for Anderson."

**Author's Note:**

> Reference to Sid Paget is based on marysutherland's fabulous series of [Sid Paget Shorts](http://archiveofourown.org/series/13616).


End file.
